When Towns Decorated

Christmas nostalgia, continued.  December, 1952.  Fall term completed on our Seattle campus.  Friend Art had a  1950 Mercury, lived in Wichita and was going home for holiday break.  Sure, he'd be happy to drop me off in Colorado Springs.  I get to go home for Christmas!

We were driving east on US 30.  Somewhere in Southern Idaho we crested a rise and swooped down into a town at the base of the plateau.  It was dark, probably two hours after sunset and it was snowing.  We were of course a bit tense, driving carefully, yet not wanting to lose a lot of time.  Slowing into the town, perhaps Montpelier, I'm not sure, we were careful to keep it well within the speed limit, prudently observing conditions. In the business district what to our eyes should appear but Christmas decorations adorning the town! Boughs and bells strung across the street, red and green lights shining on the strands, four to the block and crisscrossing at intersections.  The street lamps were enshrouded in golden halos as the snow swirled through the streets.  Christmas!

The entire town was in the rear view mirror in probably less than three minutes, yet the memory lives on in my mind's eye all these sixty-seven years later,

Merry  Christmas!

Happy Holidays

My favorite things are gone
are dead or  gone.
Christmas boughs and lights
across the downtown streets
are gone.
The malls and Sears and Wards
are dead and gone.
The youngsters caroling in the streets
are old and gone.
The skaters on the creek and pond
are gone.
The pals of yore, best friends all
old, are dead, or gone.
The children gathered 'round the hearth
are grown  and gone.
Atlanta, New York City, Hollywood
hold more appeal; They're gone.
The cars we loved, the Edelbrocks
are rust, and dust, and gone.
The thrum of V-8 singing thru glasspaks
A memory only, gone.

So flip up the recliner's footrest
Flip open the laptop and go
to Amazon and click, click, click
and who's arriving? not St. Nick
but Fed Ex at you front door.
Brown boxes, boxes galore
Bring Christmas, such as it is.
Have a  merry.
ho ho hum.   humbug

What's for Supper? #T

We had company last evening, good friends Naomi and Mark, who came to partake of beans and cornbread with us and to play a few hands of Sequence.  Good conversation, sharing trials and faith, reminiscing about times both funny and sad, praying together.  A wonderful evening, but that is not what i set out to tell you about.

BBBH set on the table a bowl of wonderful grapes, dessert, if you will and without a lot of gratuitous calories.  In the interest of full disclosure I'll insert right here that I was the one who washed the fruit.  Thoroughly washed the luscious little globes.  Or so I thought.  So who should be the one to spot the creature that lurked within?  The guest, of course, who as he reached for a few more grapes (yes, we had all eaten some of them at this point) exclaimed, "There's a spider on those grapes!"  And so there was.

I removed a cluster on which the beastie rested from the dish and assayed to capture the interloper.  But the little dickens dropped from her perch and lowered herself gently to the seat of the chair which Mark had recently and suddenly vacated.  I reached for the spider but she jumped to the floor.  I went to my knees in pursuit, all the while BBBH was like, "Stomp on it!  Kill it!"  It became clear to her that that wasn't going to happen so she switched to an apologetic tone and explained to our guests that her husband was a crazy man who likes spiders.


Too much story for what I have to tell, my wife might say.  So here's the ending.  I successfully captured the little arachnid and carried her to the sink where she posed for me while I snapped the picture.

If my identification is correct she is

phiddippus johnsoni, common jumping spider.
It is female; the male lacks the black spot on its red abdomen. They're everywhere from seashore to mountain top.  There is one or more near you as you read this

Potatoes and Creativity #T

Popped open a can of shoestring potatoes and whoosh!  My way-back machine took me to Muncie, Indiana, 1953.  I was home for the summer between my freshman and sophomore years.  Gainful employment was paramount in my list of priorities for if I was ever to realize a second year of college I had to get money.  I found work at the Butterfield cannery on the east side of town.  I had to get up quite early because I had to clock in before six and it took me about twenty minutes to make the walk from home.

Butterfield was totally consumed with the tomato pack once that crop started to come in and the hours at work stretched out to fourteen.  When not canning tomatoes, though, we canned potatoes and one of the more popular products was shoestring potatoes.  And with good reason.  Yum!  This product was especially delectable when one could grab a hot can off the line, pop it open and eat 'em while they were still hot.

My duties entailed a number of tasks, everyone being expected to step into various stations as the need arose.  One of these assignments was to jam an empty carton onto the boxing machine, trip the trigger, and receive the laden box, fold down the flaps tape it, and stack it on a pallet.  Repeat.  Repeatedly.
One afternoon I triggered and the machine jammed.  I removed the box and realigned the cans but with both hands still against a row of cans my foot hit the trigger.  The bar which pushes the cans came down-- instantly-- across both my wrists and I was pinned.  While waiting for the mechanic to release my arms I was imagining that I had just lost not one but both my hands, and I only nineteen years of age.  What a sad future I envisioned.

Freed I found that while there were deep creases across both wrists the skin had not been broken and I was still intact.  Physically, anyway.

Gossip

Casual conversation with the spouse and apropos of nothing in particular she asked me if I had ever had a gossip bench.  A what?  You know, a chair thing with a phone table attached-- all-in-one, you know.

Nope.  Never had one.  So she introduced me to something old, but new to me.

I always say, A day in which one doesn't learn something is a wasted day.

Off to the Races! #T

Decades ago I was in Portland for the summer. l had never been to a dog race. So I went. Dog race, where exploited animals get to chase a fake rabbit.

Bought a program.  I know two things about racing dogs.  They are called "Greyhounds" and they each have four legs.

Read the roster, is it called a roster? for the first race.  Not a clue. Parade.  Blue dog with white markings.  I like blue.  $2 to show.  Tote board.  This dog, Madame X, goes off at 8 to 5.  Show ticket will scarce get my money back.  They're off!  First turn the black dog bumps Madame X and she rolls  paws over teakettle plumb off the course.  Beginner's luck?

Second race.  I've assessed this one more carefully.  a true grey greyhound, name "Wendy's Grey."  Had a girlfriend named Wendy once.  $2 to win.  Went off at 35 to one.  Dang!  She won, paid 72.36.  Beginner's luck!

I'm now $6836 to the good.  A great time to quit.  So I do.  Just watch the doggies run.  Third race.  Coming out of the first turn it looks as though a huge animal, horse? no, just the biggest darn greyhound on the planet and a little white beast, almost small enough to be a whippet, are all alone so far in front that they may be the only two in the race.  And they go for the bunny!  They go so fast the Whippet-like thing actually catches the rabbit!  The Horse-like thing grabs it from her teeth, they rip it to shreds just in time for the rest of the field to screech to a stop to behold the carnage.

Darn!  said the Horse.  That thing ain't even real.
Phooey on this whole bit, chimed in the Whippet.
Yeah! All chorused  They turned and trotted across the field to the paddock, or whatever they call a dog enclosure.

The rest of the card was cancelled because the report of the rebellious creatures motivated all the dogs to go on strike.

Full disclosure:  The first four paragraphs are fact, the rest is fiction.